In a field of sand the poppies blow;
Over pits touched by ocean flow;
abaft a shade, hidden before some
shut-eye sun; And after a leveled shore,
Some petals show like crows on corpse.

And the moon, Oh how it stares down at us:
Like a half cut, half fallen birch tree.
We cry to such birch foliage:
That thirst these warm tears from us.

Darling, do you see? How the sea
is envy; it changes from blue to me;
plodding over pounded rocks;
palm to sole, fingers through toes;
Swim back to a reflection of me--
There the poppies follow me.